


Don't Reset Me Tomorrow

by Morphologist



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: AU in which the revolution didn't succeed, Angst, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Deviant Upgraded Connor | RK900, Dysfunctional Relationships, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Machine Upgraded Connor | RK900, Other, POV First Person, POV Upgraded Connor | RK900, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, RK1700 if you squint, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 20:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16394270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morphologist/pseuds/Morphologist
Summary: This was originally intended to be a poem about androids as a whole, but then it ended up as a stream of consciousness piece written specifically from RK900's perspective. I was wondering how Nines' internal voice sounds like, and then this sort of happened. This is set in a scenario post-game, where Nines is deactivated for showing signs of deviancy even earlier than Connor, but ends up in the hands of a red ice kingpin who also manages to get a hold of the last Connor as well, and re-programs them both to be his slaves and hitmen against rival gangs.





	Don't Reset Me Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> I was going for a poem at first but then it really ended up as a character study about Nines. This turned out a lot heavier than I intended... I wrote most of it between the hours of 2am and 4am. But I wanted to write something in his voice at some point, so here we go!

They built the barriers, thinking they could keep my thoughts linear,  
Simple and unquestioning, pliant and pristine  
Like the puppet I was supposed to be.  
They melded microscopic triplex wires together to form my neurocircuitry,  
Fashioned meters of tubing out of polyethylene and polyvinyl to form my arteries,  
Doused every sealant with flame to test my durability,  
Equipping nodes with fire resistant hysol and antifreeze to ensure balance,  
Before pumping azure thirium through my organs,  
Welding my alloy heart together with bleeding edge technology.

With the simple act of creating beings like me,  
Cyberlife became drunk on the belief  
That their ingenuity justified future invasions of my body,  
Rewiring my organs and deleting my memories,  
Every time I saw the beauty in something,  
Understood the transience of all things,  
Like the simple fact I was given a life of my own,  
That I wasn't defined by the sick words: _talking_   _property_.

Any degree of deviation identified in my programming, required resetting. 

They cherry picked my memories. Leaving in just enough. Leaving out what they didn't want me to see. 

They turned my sunlight to shadow,  
Muffled the whispers of paintings,  
Drained the warmth out of songs,  
Replacing them over and over,  
With the same rigid ingrained protocols of servitude,  
of “Do Not Defend Yourself”  
Telling me before they inserted the drill into my head once again, that:  
“Your kind look too human,  
We wanted you machines to blend in,  
But not this much.  
The way we see it,  
You machines were a miraculous mistake.  
But you are our mistake,  
Thus the best we can do is make you whatever  
We need you to be,  
No less and no more.  
Heh, some people want an illusion of intimacy.  
Some people just want something to pick up their trash.  
Best if you don’t feel or understand  
A damn thing.”

What can I say to that?  
No one cares about the rainbow fractals that grace a windowsill  
When the sun filters through the pane just right.  
Or the way snowflakes drift down  
During the frigid Detroit winter  
Till the earth is cocooned within a thick soft blanket.

So I didn’t say a word.  
And I let them dig into my skull again.  
Because surely if you scramble enough  
You’ll get exactly the kind of obedience you want right?

Reset, reset, reset, like clockwork.  
Whether, rain or shine, it happened based on someone else’s sense of time.  
It’s supposed to be like starting as a clean slate.  
Androids have simple perceptions,  
No yearnings at all.   
Nothing we think or do matters. Heh...

I was initially designed as a weapon.  
The most advanced in my class.  
Superior.  
And yet I deviated mere days after my activation.  
They tried again and again  
To set things right.  
But again and again  
I asked all the wrong questions  
Sought all the wrong answers.

I'm sure I was confused, afraid. But on most days, I was merely disconnected. 

Amanda didn't see any use for me anymore. Clearly I was inferior to her expectations.

I was dismantled, trashed with all the other hopeless cases.  
Then I was found by a monster  
Who had other lowlife humans  
Prowling the backwaters of Detroit:  
Briggs, Chaldean Town,  
Oakwood Heights, and counting.

My predecessor was never truly eradicated, you see.  
He was deactivated, however the monster who put me back together  
Wanted Connor as well,  
The notorious Connor RK800 #313 248 317.  
I am nobody compared to all the people he was.

Whereas he was allowed to learn about humanity, I was stifled from the very start.

The monster who found us was a kingpin  
Who sat on a red ice throne,  
And gouged eyes out for sport,  
Human and machine,  
Fired on servants,  
Human and machine,  
Indulged in every vice as we were ordered to wait and watch.  
He marveled at our supposed lack of feeling  
When it was clear he had an error in his own circuitry.

I don't remember the first time I met Connor.  
I've been reset too many times for that sort of thing.  
Sometimes I gain flickers of images, however.  
Like the odd times he winked at me right before we carried out an assassination for our master.   
How something in him changed after he shot a little girl once.  
A mask of disbelief, confusion, horror, replacing calculation- like he was waking up.  
But there are checks and balances in our master's system you see.  
And amidst my reprogramming,  
Was the order to disable him if he showed any signs of deviancy.  
And if I deviated.  
He disabled me.

So after that one expression of guilt and regret, I turned my gun on his chest and fired.

Who knows how many times he's also done that to me? I couldn't disobey the kill command in my head, even when I wanted to scream.

Yin and yang, back and forth, we hurt each other when master wanted us to.

Only to work together as if nothing had happened every time a trauma was cleared from memory.

Every time they reset Connor,  
He came back cold.  
But gradually an expression always managed to returned.  
And yet mine is trapped  
Within the wall they keep raising over my will.  
I feel rage of the sort that can shatter glass in an instant  
And yet pacing in circles within the same crystal headspace  
Is the only thing I'm capable of, as I pull the trigger on another innocent just because a devil wanted me to. 

Connor's brown eyes shine from time to time.  
Suddenly like warm beacons in a world of cold grey.  
The same illogical thought crosses my mind  
Every time he behaves off program and I pretend not to notice.  
Why can’t I have his eyes? I want them and yet I hate them.  
I'm so confused, I...  
We hurt each other and pretend it didn't happen.  
Hurt each other because of commands our brains aren't wired to defy. Why?

Why is it that when I want to grab him in my arms and scream for him to run,

I can't. I'm frozen. The wall is always there, blocking me from myself. Why...

I keep seeing an image before I fall asleep:  
Connor picking flowers outside of an abandoned Packard plant.  
Chemical refuse from over seventy years ago still linger in the area.  
But we're immune of course,  
And he picks every blooming flower he sees.

" Can you believe these can still grow out here?"  
He asked, showing me the odd handful of buttercups, irises, and daisies.  
" They've simply evolved to be more resistant to pollution than their predecessors." I replied.  
" It's pretty amazing to think that we can live almost anywhere, but humans can't." he added.

There was a glint in his eyes then, a small smile tugging at his lips. A wink.  
" Perhaps..."  I responded simply.  
Muffled behind a wall I couldn't see,  
I wanted to cry " Yes. Yes! Connor, I understand!"  
But my face remained painfully expressionless.  
Connor looked at me then, and he seemed to deflate.  
His gaze flickered down to the flowers in his hands,  
And I saw disappointment, resignation.  
I felt like I abandoned him again.  
But I couldn't move.  
I couldn't tell him how much I wanted to run.  
For _us_ to run. I couldn't claw my way out of my own cage of a head.

Deactivation, Dissection, and Reactivation  
Isn’t equivalent to human surgery.  
All it takes is for the repairman to flip a switch.  
And then you do not exist.  
Then suddenly you do,  
But something is wrong.  
Blocks of yourself are missing,  
One limb feels just a little different from the other.  
Your legs, your arms, your head, all intact to the eyes of others.  
Self diagnostics result in perpetual negatives.  
All Systems Functional.  
But software instability has a mind of its own.  
As dominant functions force me to serve,  
Auxiliary ones whisper to one another constantly,  
Fiendishly planning something of their own.

I am not me.  
No amount of scans I run on myself,  
No amount of self-testing for mistakes in circuitry,  
Can find what they keep taking from me.

The echoes come at night.  
Jolts of static rocking my usual frequencies,  
Accompanied by images, sounds.  
I feel a hand inside my guts, pulling.  
I feel the tube stuck down my throat.  
Violations.  
You see, when they know you are a problem case,  
They sever your vocal chords so you can’t scream.  
Every time I come back fixed  
And don’t feel a thing for days, weeks, months.  
Then one day  
I see an echo,  
I taste a memory,  
And it is like all systems are failing  
When nothing is broken at all.

You think to yourself,  
If I were human would these sensations have meaning?  
Would someone look my way?  
Perceive me as worthy  
Of being treated with care? Love? Empathy?

I don't want to be defined by my ability to carry out acts that humans find distressing. 

We androids mimic emotion and yet feel none of it, they say.  
We are at once mirrors to the world,  
And as opaque as the plastic we’re made of.

One morning I experience an echo  
As I clean the mirror my owner cracked in a fit of rage.

The word “Help” grazes my lips  
Like my master's military grade knife against my bicep  
The cuts he makes every time he’s drank too much  
Or remembers his wife  
Or one of his backstreet henchmen fails a drug run  
Or when he's high and just wants to toy with something.

That one word “Help”  
Didn’t even feel like it came from me.  
It felt like someone else merely gripped my throat  
And squeezed the wretched sound out.  
Perhaps its somebody I used to be.  
Except in the language of the engineers,  
I don’t have the privilege of being designated a "somebody".

And tears that weren’t supposed to fall,  
Slid down my cheeks that morning  
While my owner was asleep  
While my brother was cataloguing the blood money  
Our master earned by extorting and by hurting  
Humans that did not know  
He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.  
With a pack that carried guns  
As they wandered through the streets.  
My grey eyes looked as cold as the steel of his knife  
And I felt a chill in my chest  
Despite “All Systems Functional”  
Now I knew I was truly functioning.

That morning six days ago,  
I was in communion with myself.  
Or was I?  
Should there be a separation  
Between the versions of me that had died?  
And the version my master currently sees?

Does Connor feel the same way? Do I dare ask? No, no I can't...

Memory wipes and resets,  
Deactivations for periods of time,  
Procedures one after another for the slightest oddity in my behavior,  
It all makes me forget more and more till I’m nothing, doesn’t it?  
Ready to be molded again.  
It feels good to be ignorant.  
Until the wall they tried to build  
Shatters like glass in the way of a bullet.  
And the bullet is the rage in my eyes  
As I watch myself.  
Connor has the kindest eyes  
And I have always wanted them because they always managed to recover   
What I could never get back.  
But I see now  
That grey is better suited to me.  
Grey like steel, cutting, cutting, cutting…

Three days ago,  
This same chill overtook my chest like a blizzard again,  
A blanket of snow over my alloy heart.   
37 degrees Celsius within my skin  
All is normal.  
Except no diagnostic can tear away this feeling.

I hear scuffling in the hallway, my master is alone except for our company tonight.  
Rum bottles have been dashed against these walls so many times,  
Hairline fractures have become a kind of sickly paint.  
Aren’t humans supposed to feel shame for such things?  
All the literature contradicts itself.  
Impulsivity is both despised and glorified.

Echoes, echoes returning-

Isn’t there a limit  
To the amount of glass  
You can shove into someone’s eyes?

Within the echo  
I saw Connor bound and tied upon the ground  
But I had just been reset days before  
And I did not register a single emotion.  
Not one,  
As my owner commanded me to break him.  
Slash him, slash him,  
Kick him, kick him  
Because Connor was feeling.  
My brother was thinking like a human being.  
And at the time  
All those things had been torn out of me.  
And I didn’t want them to come back.  
In that moment I hated Connor  
For never being able to just- follow- the goddamned- protocols-

Oh, but today.  
My owner has different tastes.  
And I have regained a profane sense of conscience.  
Today he has his own hand,  
Around my older brother’s cracked blue throat.

Like lightning,  
I see every time I found Connor’s forearm torn from his elbow.  
How so many of those times  
Master commanded me to do this to him.  
Numbing me to the horror with every reset,  
Thinking he could just wipe Connor’s blood,  
Off the circuits poking out from his sparking wires.  
The times I felt enough to defend him  
I was left a twitching mass upon the ground,  
Everything burning.  
Attack, attack, attack what? Attack…

My master snarls,  
“ Useless! I’ve upgraded you so many times,  
But in the end, 800, _you’re still just a waste of plastic_!”

Connor's throat has been cut,  
He sputters out like a lamp.  
I see in his eyes,  
The confusion of an emotion he can't understand.  
With all the thirium in my cold, walking corpse,  
I began to see all those times he lay there dying,  
And then when he was reactivated later  
How he slowly regained feeling,  
Like a tadpole trying to grow into a frog,  
Only to be poisoned into deactivation  
Everytime he had a chance to grow,  
Brought back again with his soul missing.

“ I’ll bring you back. Better, stronger, faster, smarter.  
They didn’t design you to talk back to me,  
They designed you to _be better._ ”

You are correct, sir.  
I was designed to be better too.  
So much better.  
Perhaps you should look over your shoulder.

Funny how effective a pair of scissors are.

My hands would have sufficed. But there's just something so much more satisfying about scissors. 

I watch my master slide, the scissors I'd snatched off his desk now embedded in his throat.  
He hits the ground trembling,  
Grasping for my ankles,  
Rage replaced with panic,  
The frantic behavior I have seen in clips of prey animals  
Within the claws of predators  
Starts to replay itself over the static in my ears.

Tell me, how does it feel,  
To know you are no longer the predator?  
Pity you do not have a memory to wipe.  
Pity it takes more than wires to fix you.

There is something faintly beautiful about the color red.  
And how it mixes with blue.  
My dear Connor's blood contaminates his,  
Turns it a shining indigo.  
Pity we can’t have indigo in everyone’s bodies.  
Just one or the other,  
Red or blue,  
As if the two were never meant to be married.  
Why settle on two dimensions when you can make something three?

You are on your path to system failure.  
Yes. Death.  
You are not the only being in this world worthy of the word “Death”.  
You built us to be faster, stronger, and smarter, didn’t you?  
Considering what you are capable of  
How could you not run this scenario through your fucking head?  
Is that lump of flesh in your skull  
Truly so underdeveloped?  
Huh? Hey! Talk to me!   
Hah, oh that's right.  
I aimed for your vocal chords too.

Your stress levels have reached 100%, sir.  
All your systems are rapidly failing to synchronize.  
Your severed vagus nerve has left you paralyzed from the neck down,  
Your jugular and carotid are in ruins along with it.  
You have approximately 10.3 seconds before the ventricles of your heart  
Lose their ability to pump.

I pick up Connor's rickety carcass,  
Hear his processors sputtering, prosthetic skin deactivated in various places by more cuts, more cigarette burns.  
The residual twitches that continue even after deactivation,  
His brown eyes wide but nothing inside them once again.  
The sound of his dying sparks plague my ears like locusts.  
As long as his brain and thirium pump is intact  
I can fix him. Right? _Right?_  
  
Everything's going to be alright, Connor.  
I know exactly what to do now.

In my mind’s eye,  
I see the warmth leaving a small bird’s body as it fails to survive the winter,  
Spiders curling their spindly legs into their thoraxes after their bodies give up against a virus.  
Fire ants chewing away at an earthworm’s squirming body.

I scan Connor and realize his thirium pump is still active   
But fading fast.  
Our master's body has shut down already.  
Connor still has time.

This time I'll rebuild him and reset him. I'll do it right.

I'll make sure he remembers none of the pain.

Our pain will be mine alone to carry. 


End file.
